Like Confetti
by Zelost-Mind
Summary: Dean has a sordid history with deal making. Het. DeanOFC.


**Like Confetti.**

Dean/OFC. R. 10,850 words. Contains spoilers for S2 season finale.

* * *

He's fifteen when he first meets her, she materializes from thin air, just falls into step beside him suddenly while he's on his way to the first day at a new school. She jostles into him when he doesn't look up from his boots to acknowledge her, still sullen that dad wouldn't let him take the car and so used to being the new kid that he couldn't give a shit about making a nice impression by now. 

He knows all the questions she's gonna ask already and is fucking _bored_ of answering them again and again. Girls don't like to be ignored, though; hopefully she'll tell everyone at school that he's an anti-social jerk and they'll all leave him alone for once, too.

"I'm Moira-," she lets him know, "I live at number forty...It's Dean, right?"

He grunts, keeps his eyes on the yellowing little weeds poking up through every crack in the paving, what kind of a name is _Moira,_ anyway? Jesus.

"Wow, you're kind of a dick then, huh?" Yeah, nice try. He keeps his head down, notices her sneakers are anime or something, like her feet've been wrapped in Japanese cartoons. "You'll fit right in," she says, gives up the stare that's been burning into the side of his head since she showed up next to him. She doesn't leave. Walks all the way to school with him, stays right by his side till they're inside the main building and she must spot some of her friends to drift off towards.

"See ya, Dean." She elbows his elbow again and he ignores her, makes his way to the reception office to pick up the undoubtedly giant pile of first day crap they always lump him with.

She's there again the next day, too, but thankfully she doesn't try to talk to him again. Same sneakers, different jeans. Black ones that are frayed and trodden on at the bottoms where they're too long. He doesn't know how she can stand having her pants flopping around her feet like that, like an accident waiting to happen.

She turns up the next day as well. Asks him how he's liking Harrington so far and then shuts up almost obediently when he doesn't answer. Accompanies him into the school grounds, wanders by his side until she's snagged by one of the clusters they pass.

Then it's the weekend, and he spends it scouting around the town with Sam, learning the lousy place. They browse the one overpriced supermarket with all six of it's super aisles, find the lone laundromat, and figure out the other, cheaper, places to buy the essential groceries.  
They snicker at the community center that doubles as the church. The kindergarten slash gym slash place to go for evening classes. They get hot dogs from the deli that's also a restaurant upstairs and Dean scans the vacancy signs in the store windows that're advertising for summer staff. Babysitters and paper-boys. He can feel the claustrophobia tightening around his airway already.

"I like it here," Sam decides, wiping mustard off his top lip.

"Of course you do." Dean rolls his eyes, thinks about going back for another hot dog. Sam likes just about every town they stop at, gets attached even though he already knows better. "We'll be outta here in a month."

"Yeah, says _dad_." And apparently that's Sam's cue to roll his own eyes.

---------------

She's there again on Monday, right there at the end of her driveway, waiting for him to go past so she can latch on. He keeps his face blank, doesn't slow his pace, ignores her like she doesn't even exist when she asks if he had a good weekend and generally tries to be as uninviting as he can. It doesn't deter her at all, and hell, he knows he's pretty good-looking but what the hell is wrong with this chick? He wonders if maybe she's a little special.

But that theory is blown out of the water when he notices she's in his math class, too, that afternoon. She sits near the front with a really cute Indian chick who spends the whole lesson passing notes and giggling into her cupped palm at everything Moira whispers in her ear.

He accidentally breaks his silence on Thursday morning when she trips on the uneven sidewalk, squawks a curse and grips the arm he automatically offers out to prevent an otherwise disastrous tumble.

"Y'alright?" It's out of his mouth without a thought. She steadies herself, tests some weight on her ankle and nods before she looks up at him, smile wriggling onto her face.

"So you _can_ talk," she crows, triumphant.

He sighs, starts walking again, sorely regretful. She jogs a little to catch up, hops a few times, he grits his teeth and shortens his stride, tries not to make it too obvious.

"Hey, don't worry, I wont tell anyone you're not really a mute, pyromaniac, ex-con who strangled the head teacher at his last school and hosts cock-fights in his basement at the weekends. Wouldn't wanna ruin your rep."

He casts her a look, as blank as he can keep it. He'd heard the one about him being fresh outta juvie but the rest are news, he's pretty sure she's making'em up.

She's running a little late on Friday morning, flustered, clothes askew, hanging awkwardly like she didn't have time to even straighten her t-shirt, he gets a flash of pale belly, that doesn't go away when she hitches her bag onto her shoulder again, teeth biting hard to keep a history book in her mouth while she reaches up to tie her hair back sloppily, missed strings hanging out of her off-center pony tail that she tucks behind her ears angrily.

"Your jacket's inside out," he tells her, once she's straight, calmed.

"Oh, for fuck's--hold this, wouldjja?" She deposits her bag on his shoulder without waiting for an answer, strips her jacket off jerkily, mad at it.

"Jesus, what the fuck do have in here?" He adjusts the strap, quells the urge to check inside for the rock collection she's surely housing in there. Moira looks at him, sheepish smile as she shakes her jacket the right way in.

"Uh, everything? I couldn't remember what day it was this morning so I just brought it all."

"Sleep through your alarm or somethin'?" He wants to ask what kind of moron forgets what day it is, figures he'll give her a break though, he's a fair guy, wouldn't wanna stoop to baiting her while she's clearly off her game.  
She grunts an affirmative, _somethin' like that_, wriggling back into her jacket, relieves him of the tonne weight she calls a bag, sighs heavily, finally all good, before she turns to regard him again, pans a critical eye over his face, shoulders.

"You piss Jerry Mayson off yesterday?"

"No," he lies. Maybe he did. But he couldn't help it, son of a bitch is a bully, and dumb as shit, _and _painfully in the closet, 's not like Dean'd been pointing out stuff that wasn't already obvious to everyone.

"They were talking about maybe egging your house tonight. Might wanna pull your car into the garage or something."

Oh, 'zat so? "Okay," Dean says, already plotting. Not like he can just go ahead and beat the crap out of a guy as gay as Jerry Mayson, it'd be worse than hitting a girl. He'll think of something though, got all day at school to let his imagination run wild, after all. He'll hafta make some room in the goddamn garage before the Impala'll fit in there, though. Shit.

He feels a slap on his ass, jolts him back outside his head. "I said _see ya, sweetie_," Moira repeats, smirking at him, and he realizes she's _dropping him off,_ walked him to the end of the English corridor and now she's heading the other way.

"Fuck...Hey!" he snaps, stupidly annoyed. She just waves, chuckles, skinny ass disappearing around a corner.

---------------

He's hefting soggy boxes into weak, precarious pyramids, filling up the edges of the garage with the mess that'd been spread everywhere, when Sam wanders in. He watches idly for five minutes, finishing his popsicle with loud distracting slurps before he pitches in to help, too.

"What the hell're you two doin' in there?" their dad asks, limping over from the fridge with a beer, leaning on the door stencil to observe their progress, suspicious tilt to his head. Sam looks to Dean, wiping his brow like he's been doing real work as a opposed to picking through someone else's old junk for ten minutes, made more mess than he's actually managed to clear up, he's not whining for once though, so Dean's been letting it slide.

"Making room for the car," Dean says. His dad arches a brow, not buying it.

"Dean, we're leaving in a week. I swear to God, son, if I get some kid's folks calling to let me know they're pressin' charges again, I'm gonna--"

"Dad! I'm just making room for the Impala." He musters up all the innocence he can fathom, tries to convey it with a single dewy-eyed look like the one Sam has down but it's wasted when he can't help a grin, a shock of laughter bubbling up and out from the memory, _that time when the kid's 'rents threatened to press charges_. The way his dad'd just smacked him on the back of the head, had faith that it hadn't been Dean's fault without even having to ask first.

"Uh-huh. Finish up in here, you two're making dinner tonight," dad says, gesturing with his bottle. Dean and Sam both nod their _yesir's_ as he turns to hobble away.

---------------

Thunder wakes him, monstrous roaring, booming above the house. It's always made him uneasy, being inside while all that ruckus is going on, loud enough that he can feel it spiking his blood. It's not right, being inside where he can't keep an eye on it, so he sits up, stumbles around for his jeans.

"W'r y'goin?" Sam grumbles, twisting the clock between their beds so he can see it's face.

"Out, go back t'sleep," Dean mutters, stuffing his feet into his boots, wincing when the laces he hasn't bothered with get their revenge, digging into the soft soles of his feet where he's trapped them. A flash lights the room, another bone-rattling shake of thunder immediately after it. Sam flops onto his belly, getting it.

"Yer a freak, Dean."

If dad hears Dean make his way through the house, he must've decided it's pointless to hinder. Dean closes the front door behind himself, waits for a second listening for any movement inside, wanders out to the sidewalk when he hears none.  
He knocks his collar up under his ears, buries his fists in his pockets, tries to keep the draft from getting up under his jacket, finds it isn't actually as cold as he'd braced himself for. He listens to the constant splatter of water hitting the earth, breathes in deep, tastes the sharp freshest of air all down his throat and tilts his face up, up. Nothing but the navy edges of enormous clouds, no stars, no moon. A fat drip hits him right in his eye and makes him swear.

Another flash splits his view, burns a streak into his retinas, the sky groans a rumbling, deafening encore and when he checks, Moira's standing right there, right by him on the sidewalk, face wet, squinting up into the rain, hair soaked already, too, clinging to her head and neck.

"I saw you come out, I was already out on the porch steps," she explains, loud over the hiss of rain.

"What're you doin'?" He's genuinely curious about that at least, irritated too, maybe, that she's out here muscling in on his thunder storm. She shrugs, snuggles tighter into the over sized coat she's got tucked round herself, skinny white stick legs poking out from the bottom and plunging ridiculously into whoever's boots she's got on.

"Jus' watchin'...What're you doin'?"

He shrugs, concedes that yes, the sky is big enough for both of'em to watch.

By the time the storm passes, the sky underneath the clouds is lit up, pink for dawn. Moira staggers upright from the curb, mutters a goodbye before she limps back to her house. Dean listens to her front door rattle open, the screen door slap shut behind her.

The first thing he does when he gets inside is take a shower to get rid of the stiff cold that's settled all over him. He wonders whether, maybe...  
He tries to think about _her_, remembers that flash of chalky belly, the jut of pelvis above the waistband of her jeans, she's nearly as tall as him, skinny everywhere, probably has those pointy model-esque tits that he wouldn't be able to get a good grip on, a smudge of brown between her legs to match the hair on her head...maybe...

But the face in his mind is the cute Indian chick from math, instead, and her soy skin edges out the pale, spreads color and lush curves over his imagination like ink through water.  
And then there's Christina Applegate, a favorite, washing the Impala in a white, soaked t-shirt. Oh yeah, barely-there denim cut off's with the waist cut off too, they'd just drop, brash invitation, nothing underneath but shiny flushed skin and mysterious dark creases...

When he gets out of the bathroom, dad's up, one eye on the bread under the grill and one eye on the newspaper. Dean smirks at the desolate looking toaster as he gets a glass down for his orange juice, slathers an unmanly layer of strawberry jelly on his toast when it's ready.

"Get your brother up when you're done with that, we're going to Jefferson's, then target practice," dad says, empty coffee mug clunking down in the sink.

"We stockin' up?" Dean asks. Dad nods, wobbles across to his bedroom and comes back with his journal, captivated by it. Dean finishes his breakfast, downs his juice and gets up to go wake Sam.

"Hey, Dean, we might be staying here a little longer than I said," dad lets him know without looking up, an afterthought, one finger still tapping the article he'd been reading in the paper. Dean nods unseen, he'd kinda figured, it's always the shittiest towns they stay in the longest.

But they end up staying in that one for just under four years.

---------------

Moira lives with her aunt. Dean never asks what the deal is with her parents. She never asks him about his mom, so he figures things'll work just fine if he exercises the same courtesy. Her aunt though, is a crazy, crazy woman.

"You think I don't know what you're upto, girlie? Come back here! Off gallivanting with boys? Is that it? Just like your aunt Mab! You a jezebel like your auntie Mab, huh? You know what she does now, how she ended up? I'll take you to see her one of these days, girlie-"

"I'm going to _school_, aunt Debbie." Moira's voice drifts into the equation wearily. It's the same almost every morning. Dean turns the radio down so he can hear the argument over the idle of the engine, watches as Moira steps out of her front door, aunt Debbie close on her heels, fists balled on her waist sternly as she watches her nieces' journey down the drive towards the Impala. He steps out of the car, waves at her across the roof.

"Morning aunt Debbie," he hollers, catches Moira smirk at him before she drops into the passenger seat.

"You again! I should've known it'd be you." She shakes her head, waves a dismissive hand at him before she turns back into the house, mumbling to herself. "...Damn boy, coming 'round with that black car, this ain't a damn circus! Moira don't need no limousine to get to school, nuh-uh..."

Dean really is pretty fond of aunt Debbie. She's a walking stereotype, and yeah she's nuttier than a fucking fruit cake but she's also totally hot. All this big blonde hair and tight jeans, waxy red lipstick and a cleavage that never fails to make him grin. He doesn't ever know what the fuck she's talking about. It's awesome.

"You do your chemistry homework?" Moria asks, once they get going. He purses his mouth, pretends like he's trying to remember. "You're fucking useless, you know that?" She huffs at his unconvincing show, hauls her bag up from the foot-well and starts pawing through it, still cluttered and full of shit she doesn't ever need but brings _just in case.  
_  
"Here." She lets the appropriate papers flutter into his lap, starts stuffing her belongings back into her satchel, a reverse Mary Poppins. "You'll hafta copy'em out again 'cause they're in my handwriting. And this is the last time!"

Dean nods, understanding, tries to make it look sincere."Thanks," he says, grinning, jamming the homework into his pocket when they stop at a light.

"Don't grin at me like that, you think I don't know you can do that shit with your eyes closed? You're like a mad scientist in chemistry."

"Then why d'you keep doin' it _for_ me?" he drawls, smiles even wider over at her, just to add salt.

"'Cause you keep not doin' it!" she bellows, throwing her hands up and shaking her head, long suffering. Makes Dean smile against the glare shining at him through the windshield.

---------------

He gets a job at the only gas station in town, working nights whenever he's available 'cause they can't _give _those shitty hours away and he's the only moron who applied. Legal to sell lottery tickets, and no previous experience required, it's perfect.  
'Sides, there's only one bar in town with a decent pool table and he's tapped that resource for all it's worth, they recognized his face and his game in that place after a week. Turns out the locals aren't as dumb as they look.

It's mostly truckers, and there are a few nights when he doesn't see another soul from midnight all the way to six. He spends most of his time restocking the shelves and developing a mild case of OCD, arranging things neatly by color or size. He reads all the magazines, even _Women & Home Monthly_ which is, in many ways, very enlightening. After a few weekends of seeing nobody and doing nothing at work, he even starts taking books from his school reading list with him for when he gets really desperate.

He does weekends (and extra nights during school holidays) at _Wagon-wheel pump 'n' go_ for almost a year and not a damn thing out of the ordinary happens. It's kinda disappointing. One time this guy got a little frustrated when his credit card got declined, but Dean's shift was nearly over and the dude looked like he'd been on the road for a long time, so Dean just sent him on his way. _S'cool buddy, I'll write an IOU from ya and put it in the register.  
_  
He's been in the back, flattening boxes so he'll be able to lug'em out to the dumpster easier, and when he wanders out to the shop front, Moira's sitting on the counter devouring a bag of Cheetos. He finds himself grinning as he rounds the sunglasses stand, any company is good company in this wasteland and Moira isn't bad company under normal circumstances, she has her moments that reduce him to near hysterics from time to time.

"What are you doin' here?" And he pauses, 'cause: "And what the hell are you wearing?"

She gapes at him, hops down to the shiny linoleum to better show off her gown, scrubbing at the Cheeto dust that's now adding orange festive cheer all down the front.

"It was prom tonight, stupid. I'm wearing _a dress_," she explains primly, mini-curtsy and all. It's a nice dress, he guesses. Plenty of peachy bare skin, and wow, who knew she actually had boobs and a waist, maybe it's padded or something. It gets an approving nod from Dean that earns him another curtsy. He steals the cheetos.

"So if it's prom night, what're you doing _here_? Shouldn't you be at a lame house party, getting trashed and letting some random douche pop your cherry?"

"Yeah, that always was my prom fantasy," she says longingly, hand on her heart, "but I knew you'd be _here_, pining for some human company, so I exchanged one douche for another."

"I'm honored," he tells her. Runs his eye over her again, appreciating all the girl-arms and collar bones and slender neck that's on display, hair all done up in an intricate pile with little spirals hanging down, fancy jewelry winking at him from all corners of her body. Sure beats gas pumps or his own ghostly reflection staring back at him from the window.

Speaking of gas pumps, there's motion outside, a car swerves in, narrowly missing pump two and barely rolling to a halt before the front doors flap open and a guy scrambles out of each one, coming around and meeting in the middle, two waves crashing together at the front bumper.  
They're vicious, serious, and they slam into the hood, a meaty struggling tangle, roll over and then off onto the ground and a woman climbs out of the vehicle, too, sobbing for them to _stop it, oh my god guys please stop-stop it, help, somebody!_ The automatic doors have already parted for Dean, cold air on his skin and the smell of gasoline suddenly threefold compared to what the odor is like inside, when he feels a tugging on his sleeve.

"Don't get involved," Moria says, watching the guys yelling and grappling, shockingly firm grip on Dean's wrist, holding him just inside the sanctuary of the station store. He shakes her off, takes another few steps towards the melee, and the guys are up again, half upright at least, locked together, grunting, furious wrestling, and this time her grip closes 'round his upper arm, both hands, and she's _pulling_ him back towards the doors, or trying to at least, succeeding a fraction.

"_Moira_, what the fuck're you-"

But the woman shrieks, cuts him off, and the guy in the blue shirt is on his knees, dripping blood all over himself, has a knife clean through his hand like a gruesome special effect, and the guy who put it there is boxing himself back in the car and shagging ass outta there, squealing and weaving off into the night towards the highway.

Dean thinks about it a lot, after. For days longer than he should spend dwelling on it, maybe, considering the things he's seen and managed to put away to quiet places in his mind within hours of them almost horrifying the life out of him.

Moira avoids him. He knows 'cause he actually has to seek her out when he wants to talk to her, rather than her just popping up in his space where ever he goes like she's secretly had him fuckin' low-jacked.

Aunt Debbie sends him right on in after a brief but heartfelt lecture on the difficulties of owning a farm and trying to turn a profit. He sits in Moira's bedroom, in awe of the place. It's a total sty, piles of clothes and shoes, clutter everywhere, haphazard pillars of cassettes and videos, just stuff. Belongings that must accumulate when you don't have to box up your essentials every now and then, leave behind the shit that wont fit in the Impala. _Stuff_. Not a visible inch of carpet under his feet and there're _four_ glasses of water on her nightstand. The bed, however, is a beacon of neat, beckoning from the center of the bomb site.

Moira is less than pleased to see him lounging on said bed, not surprising since she's wrapped in towels, still rosy and fresh outta the shower.

"So, the other night at the gas station, how'd you know?" He cuts right to the chase, got no reason to dilly-dally with this.

"I didn't _know_. Just. People are crazy, y'know? You shouldn't get in the middle of other people's crazy shit, it was just common sense. Maybe you'll have learned from it. Now can you get out?"

"Don't give me that shit. You _knew_. You left your _prom._"

"Dean, how many kinds of retarded are you? We were_ lucky_, okay, that you didn't get hurt, too..." She looks up at him, then, licks her lips and when she starts talking again, it's like something tearing, something that's always been there ripping itself into reality for him to see for the first time, the sound of it makes his spine snap straight, makes his palms sweat and his skin crawl and his heart pound and in none of the good ways. "You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, Dean. Not with your lifestyle..."

"Christo," he snaps out quick.

"What?"

He huffs, edges out past her without turning his back 'cause, naively, he didn't come armed. He wasn't actually expecting her to be something...otherly. It's a surprise. He fucking _hates_ surprises. Especially ones that scare the hell out of him.

They avoid each other, after that. He needs to think up a game plan and can afford to give her a wide birth while he does. He thinks about letting his dad know, but she hasn't actually done anything other than creep his shit, so he keeps it to himself. Keeps an eye on her when he can, but mostly, they just avoid each other. It lasts successfully for a few months.

---------------

He looks up from his comic, blinking, eyes tired and itchy from straining in the dim light, he's read it approximately two bazillion times already, but it turns out there _is_ a limit to how many times a seventeen year old guy can jerk off in one day and he's reached it. He's, like, chaffed. And there's no way he's doing his _homework_ just 'cause his ankle is broken, he's not that much of a chump.

And who wouldda thought you could break your ankle jumping out of a tree into the path of a charging pond monster? Fuckin' stupid ass tree roots that did him in while the damn creature ran right past. Didn't even stop to try and take a chunk out of him, what a freakin' gyp.

He sighs, lets his eyes wander 'round the living room again, thinks about turing on the TV but Jesus Christ if he has to watch anymore of that _Days of Of Our Lives_ shit he'll seriously boil is own head.  
He cracks his neck, stretches his arms up till his finger tips tingle and when he opens his eyes, Moira's standing there in front of the couch, right in front of him.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck_fuck_, a firework of prickles shoots up his spine and scatters all over the back of his neck and there's nothing at hand except the fucking remote control and he knew, _he fucking knew_, something hadta give with her sooner or later and shit shitshit. _Sam!_ gets stuck in his throat, 'cause there's no way calling Sam in here is a good idea, and there's a knife taped to the underside of the kitchen table, a shotgun in the cereal cupboard, so maybe if he can just distract her--

"Dean, m'not gonna hurt you." Yeah, sure she's not, that's what they all fucking say.

"What the hell are you?" he hisses, furious, at everything, he can feel his eyes stinging already, throbbing in time with the jack hammer in his chest. God, he's a fucking _idiot,_ how long's it been since he checked the salt lines? For fuck's sake, Sammy's _sleeping_ in the next room.

"I'm a Wish...I'm _your_ wish, to be precise," Moira says, and sits herself down on the cushion next to him.

"The fuck?" He scoots away from her, experiences a whole new foray into the World of Pain when his momentarily forgotten cast slips off the end of the coffee table, his padded heel thudding onto the carpet. When the stars clear she's still there, looking concerned, she hasn't used his lapse in concentration to her advantage and chewed through his fuckin' jugular or anything though, so that's a plus.

"Shit, Dean, careful. You want me to get you your painkillers?"

"What the fuck do you want?" he pants, clutching his leg at the knee, and she did that some how, he just knows it, and if it wasn't her then he's blaming her anyway. She rolls her eyes, exasperated with him.

"Okay, relax, I just wanna talk to you, alright? So, like, clam down. And pay attention."

"Just get the fuck outta here," he snaps out, wary of making too much noise, but maybe he _should_ wake Sam. Sure, he'd never live down the shame of having to yell for his baby bro to come to his rescue but at least he'd _live_.  
Moira sighs, put upon, moves across and seats her ass on the coffee table instead. She bites her thumb nail, touches a scar on his bare knee and makes him flinch before she straightens, hoovers in a breath for her impending speech.

"What would you say if I told you that every person born, is born with one wish..."

He opens his mouth to tell her she's fucking cracked and he's gonna fill her full of lead as soon as he gets a chance to see how she likes _that_, but. But it actually sounds familiar, what she's saying. Maybe he's read it somewhere. It's familiar enough that he keeps his mouth shut.

"Some people are born with brains, and others get brawn. Some get both. Some people are gifted, with artist's fingers or voices that can carry for centuries. Some people get none and some people get the whole lot. But everybody, everybody gets a wish...You know this, right? Everybody knows it."

He nods, blinking water out of his eyes, frustrated by the thick deja vu in his head. Qualities scattered over souls like confetti, yeah, he knows what she's talking about, he just can't figure out _how_ he knows. His brain is working harder than it's worked in a long time, firing on all cylinders trying to place it all, trying to figure out where he's heard this before and if this is some sort of fucking spell he's gotta resist, don't listen, resist it, and if she's some kind of creature? What is she? And how the fuck does he kill her, again?

"Yeah. And some people use their wish without even realizing, they use it up when they're young, use it for something frivolous, and some people, they might go through their entire life from beginning to end and never use their's..."

He's nodding again, unconscious agreement 'cause he's still _knowing_ all this, like every word out of her mouth is igniting some lesson he can't remember learning. Doesn't feel much like a spell, she's not doing anything but telling, reminding.

"Well, I got a proposition for ya, Dean."

"Oh yeah?" But hey, Dean's daddy didn't raise no fool, despite what everyone might think from time to time, he knows to read the fine print first and foremost. "_Why?_ Why do you got a _proposition_ for me?"

Moira scowls at him, leans back on her hands and bites her lip hard, still offended by his suspicion.

"I just _do_," she says unconvincingly, and leans forward to snag his comic, fidgeting. It just ain't gonna fly.

"Tell me or get the fuck out," he says, his ankle is _screaming_ under the cast, bolting out stripes of misery with his pulse, which is still too fast, and why the fuck should _she_ be offended? She's the one who's really some kind of lying slimy creature, masquerading as his _friend_ this whole time, goddammit. "Tell me, I swear, I'm gonna-"

"Because it's not fair!" she bursts out, loud, cutting him off and startling him more than he'd ever admit. "It's not fair, okay? It's not _fair_ that I'm just here to be someone's penny in a fucking fountain and it's not fair that a guy who's _you_ only gets to have one wish! _That's_ why."

Okay. Dean shifts a little. Lunatic creature or not, it's still making him uncomfortable, watching her swipe at her wet cheeks like that. She pulls in another shaky lungful, looks up at him again.

"So here's the deal-" she leans forward again, grabs his hand before he can pull it back, "-I'm gonna take something away from you right now, but in return I'm gonna give you another wish on top of the one you've already got." She sniffs, wipes her nose on one sleeve, lady-like as always. "...Whaddya say?"

Fuck. Shit fuck. What's the right answer? How in hell is he supposed to decide that, what kind of fucking game is this? He's gonna screw it up, he just knows he is. "What're you gonna take away?" God, he sounds like a little kid.

Moira shakes her head, soft smile, supposed to be reassuring he guesses. "M'sorry Dean, I can't tell you."

He tries to grin and fails, bites his lip instead to stop the tremble in his chin. "You're screwing me over right now, aren'tcha?"

She grips his hand tighter, crushing his knuckles together, shaking her head vigorously. "No. I'm not Dean. It's a good deal, okay? It's not--It's something you wont even miss. You wont realize it's gone. You barely ever use it anyway." She smiles at him again. "It's a good deal, really Dean, it is."

He doesn't believe her. Not really. If she's not tricking him then that deal is definitely too good to be true.

"C'mon, man. When have I ever steered you wrong, huh?" She shakes his hand between hers, Dean imagines she's trying to rattle sense up his arm and into his head. And yeah, okay, she's always kinda looked out for him, whether he needed it or not.

"Yeah," he blurts, and can't quite believe it just came out of his mouth. Fuck it, in for a penny..."Yeah, okay. Deal."

Moira nods, pleased, and tips forward again, keeps tipping forward till she's right in his space and he feels his head thump back against the couch as her nose touches his. "You wont regret it," she promises, thumb pressing soft into his bottom lip, coaxing his mouth open a sliver so she can kiss him.

---------------

He wakes up to the familiar and ever annoying sounds of _Sam_. Sam's dumb educational morning documentaries and Sam's spoon tinkling on porcelain, the rhythmic crunchcrunchcrunch of cereal between Sam's molars. Dean's neck is fucking killing him, he groans as he tilts his head up straight, hot agony ringing through his muscles.

"Dumbass, shouldn't have fallen asleep on the couch," Sam says, unsympathetic as usual, followed by, "Dad's gonna kill you if he finds out you had a girl over last night." Little shit was awake after all then, shoulda known.

"He's not gonna find out," Dean protests, voice scratchy.

Sam grins, drains the milk out of his bowl like it's soup. "Five bucks and you got yourself a deal," he offers, hopping up from the couch to take his mess to the kitchen. Dean hears himself growl a little, he's had enough of fucking _deals. _"What'll it be?" Sam asks, like he doesn't already know, throwing himself back down in his seat, almost slopping milk over the side of his magically replenished bowl of cereal. Bottomless freakin' pit.

"Take it outta m'wallet," Dean subsides, in no mood to argue. He needs to take a leak pretty bad and his foot is itchy and his muscles are _aching_ and he needs a shower and it's gonna be heaps of fun trying not to get his cast wet and he has chunks missing from his memory of last night. It's making him pretty fucking grouchy.

"Who was she anyway?" Sam wonders halfheartedly, eyes on the TV.

"Moira." Yeah, Moira came over and talked to him about something. She talked him into making a deal but it might've been a trick. It was something--

"Moira!" Sam parrots, spluttering, disgusted and amused at once. "But she's- she's your _buddy_, she's practically a _guy_, Dean."

"Whatever," Dean grouses, not listening. What the hell does Sam know about anything. She said something, though. Shit, but it was important, something dad'll kick his ass for if he ever finds out. Something he shouldn't have done, probably. And then she kissed him, and that, surprisingly, wasn't _that _bad. He's endured worse, at any rate, like that game of spin the bottle over at Rita Simon's place, makes him shudder just thinkin' about it. Ugh.

He sighs, notices his crutches are on the floor just within arms reach over the side of the couch, not where he left'em (he's been practicing his hoppin') but he leans over to grab them anyway, something echoing through his head about gift horses and how you shouldn't look'em directly in the mouth or something.

---------------

She makes a funny noise when she touches his cock for the first time. Curls her fingers around him and just _tugs_ like she's trying to stretch it off, and Jesus, the thing _is_ attached, but then she eases up a little, and yeah, that's better. Not great, but better. He hums, blissful, gets back to his searching.

"Um. Dean? I don't- I don't think-"

He's pressed flat on top of her, trapping her arm momentarily between their bellies, stretching over the side of his bed so he can root around in the shoebox that's usually well hidden underneath. Not listening 'cause he can't fucking find what he's looking for, dammit.

"Dean? I don't think this is gonna work, okay? There's no way you're gonna fit that thing in me."

"Huh?" He's still not really listening, she does have her fucking hand on his dick, after all, and god she smells so good and her tits are so awesome that he actually feels a little guilty about not staring at them more often, and shit, two _empty_ boxes but he knows there's a stray single one in here _somewhere_. Typical, it's always just laying around till you need it and then it disappears into thin fucking air-

"Dean! Would you fucking listen for a second?"

A-ha! Success, finally. Suck _that,_ shoebox. He knew he hadn't used'em all. He places the condom carefully on the pillow above her head where he can keep an eye on it and heaves his weight back where it belongs, body snug between her thighs, nuzzles into her neck, picking up where he left off.

"What is it?"

"Your cock, Dean." She punctuates with another one of those sharp tugs, and actually, he takes it back, he kinda likes it when she does that, and thrusts into her grip hoping she'll do it again. Her other hand splays itself against the small of his back, slips down into the back of his jeans to dig her fingernails into one of ass cheeks, warning, when he drags his nose down her chest, sucks the fleshy underside of one of her tits till there's purple evidence that _his mouth was here.  
_  
"What about it?" he purrs, traveling back up, teeth playing gently on her earlobe, gold stud slipping into his mouth.

"I told you, it's not gonna fit. So maybe we should just-"

"Nah, we'll make it fit," he promises, finger-walking one hand up her bare leg, hooking under the elastic of her panties at the top of her thigh and sliding two fingers round and down, the spiky hair against his knuckles ridiculously enticing as he worms the material loose, away from her body. She squirms, jerks her face out of range and looks him dead in the eye.

"Dean..."

Her looks back at her, challenging her to stop him as he pulls himself out of his boxers. Keeps up the staring contest as he rips a strip off the condom packet with his teeth.

"This was your idea," he reminds her, all his weight on one elbow as he sheaths himself in oily latex. "It doesn't have to be me."

"Yes it _does_. Any other guy would think I'm a total freak for wanting it like this," she complains.

"Whereas I _already know _you're total freak." He smirks down at her scowl. "Now are we all systems go or what? Want me to eat you out or somethin' first?"

She snorts, shakes her head and rubs one hand over her eyes, sobering, starts wiggling under him; hips rocking side to side as she shimmies her panties all the way down. Dean bites his lip to stifle a grin, bends a little to help slip'em off. Who the hell wears panties with _green_ _roses _all over'em? Naked though, that's cool, if that's the way she wants it, ain't like he's gonna complain. It's a fine, fine view. Not that he'd ever tell her.

He watches himself, his dick, slips the head up over her clit, down over, slick pressure against a hard nub. He repeats a few times and he said he wouldn't watch her but he glances up at her face anyway, finds her watching him back, concentrating like he's teaching her something. Up over, and she squeezes her eyes shut, down over and then just down till he's snared. He pushes, testing, and she's gonna prove herself right, she's so stiff.

He promised he wouldn't talk either, but he can't- he's not a total animal. He breathes in her ear, "Relax for me." She turns her face away from him, angry maybe, but she blows out the breath she'd been holding, twists her hands up in the sheets, making even tighter knots and it's useless really, keeping her hands off off him, 'cause it's not like he can't feel the rest of her shaking against him anyway.

He doesn't go easy, doesn't take it slow or let her adjust. He fucks her just like they agreed he would: deep and bad tempered, too much too soon, too fast. Buries himself in her, feels her break open over him as he pops inside, feels her muscles flutter crazily round him, helpless and overstretched and overwhelmed.

He bites her neck under her ear, whispers how good she feels even though that wasn't part of the plan--_no stopping, I'm not one of your usual fucking Barbie's, and no talking either, she'd smirked, not unless it's something nasty._ He can't not, can't not enjoy how new and delicate she is, wringing him out, fire hot and arching under him, away from him, to try and minimize the hurt.

She gives in near the end, goes pliant and clings to him, and god, those little sounds she makes, his name, failing spectacularly at keeping those noises in and they're what send him over, spitting hot right inside her.

And they agreed, he _knows_, but he can't not ask, after. Didn't realize he was gonna like it so much. Like _her _so much.

"Okay?" A quiet question against her sweaty neck. He brushes the hair off her forehead, sweeps his hand down over the clammy ball of her shoulder, squeezes over her tit, lets his palm skate over her moving ribs and admires the goose-flesh his touch leaves in it's wake.

She grunts, shifts gingerly, mostly pinned under him still and he figures that's his cue to roll away and stop with the body crushing.

---------------

They sit on the couch with the TV on, school shit spread out on the coffee table so it looks like they've been watching a movie and pretending to study for when Sam and dad get back.  
It's weird, but only 'cause she's being quiet for once. He thought it would be weirder than it actually is and then she laughs to herself, breaks the silence like she's reading his thoughts.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," she says, rolling her head lazily on the back of the couch till she's facing him, he does the same, zero energy for even sitting up straight. "It's not what I expected, though."

Dean nods, concurring.

Sam slams in, doesn't even bother with a hello, just barges past them beelining for the bathroom, dark little storm cloud trailing along after him like it always does these days. _The_ _essential accessory every fifteen year old must have!_ Dad follows slower, amused, wedges the front door open to let some welcome cool air flow into the place.

"He still had baby teeth in the back, new ones pushing up from underneath. They pulled'em...Moira," dad explains, nods a greeting at their guest. Dean smirks, _aww, baby teeth_, comedy gold for the next two weeks at least.

"Mr. Winchester," Moira nods back, smiles so sweetly, Dean imagines butter really wouldn't have melted in her mouth yesterday. She gathers her stuff into that damn Marry Poppins bag and gets up, slaps Dean's knee on her way past and tells him she'll get out from under their feet before the merciless teasing can begin. He salutes her, watches her walk for too long, cutting across the lawns, hopping over the neighbors cultivated little groves of shrubbery en route to her own house. Dad notices, sets sail a knowing look.

"Lover's tiff?" dad teases, reaching into the fridge for a cold one, entirely too amused by his offspring today--it just ain't right.

"Shut up," Dean says, and goes in search of his numb faced baby brother for some real comic relief.

They have to leave the state week later.

Dad doesn't tell them the specifics, but he comes home in the middle of the night, acrid stench of smoke clinging to him, and tells them to pack up what they need and get in the car, he'll meet them at the first truck stop after the state line, and make it fast, out by dawn and no later. He's so pale and speaking so low, it's obvious he's freaking the fuck out, so obvious and so rare a thing that his orders don't draw a contradictory argument out of Sam, kid just does as he's told for once.

Dean gets stuck packing up most of Sam's shit, but he decides not to complain when Sam eventually leaves the confines of the bathroom, eyes puffy and red, but his face is solemnly, resolutely dry. Dean messes up Sam's stupid hair on his way past, Sam sniffs loud and allows it.

Dean's sad for Sam, he is, it's a raw deal that they had to pack it up and sneak out under the cover of darkness, shitty that they didn't have any time to say bye to anyone, tie up any loose ends, and he's sad to leave the place himself, but he doesn't think he'll miss it much.  
It's something Sam'll learn: to not sprout roots. Sure, there were some good people, but there tend to be good people everywhere if you wanna find'em. It actually feels good to be moving on, it feels right, exciting even.

The air in his face through the drivers side window as they speed past the _You Are Now Leaving- _sign is refreshing, cold beer on a hot day refreshing, like it's blowing the dust right off him.

---------------

He doesn't see Moira again till he's twenty-two. He's in a bar, or it was _just a bar _when he sat down at least, but's it's getting a little rowdy now, bodies filling up the space and closing in around him, women wearing smaller and smaller scraps of clothing, the later it gets the louder the music blares. It's not the most terrible music it could have been, but it comes close to scraping the barrel of what the eighties had to offer, in his opinion. So maybe it's a club.

He's not even that trashed, miraculously or disappointingly, despite the fact that he's been drinking for a good few hours and he's wondering whether to call a cab or just walk back to the motel, both of those options mean leaving the 'pala _here_ though, so he isn't fancying either of'em much. Maybe he can just doze in the backseat for a few hours and then drive back, there're never any cops around at sun up anyways.

Hmm, decisions, decisions...

And shit, _quickquick_, he scans his surroundings for something else trivial before his thoughts get heavy, before they pull off towards the west.

He distracts himself just in time by ordering another Corona and eyeing the nearest drooping neck line, happily bouncing it's way up onto the stool next to him.

"Buy me a beer, you perv," the cleavage demands, clicking fingers in front of his eyes, and man, that's annoying, what ever happened to the days when cleavages stayed quiet and just went around lookin' pretty? Okay, so maybe he's a clutching at straws now with this whole trivial thoughts thing...and maybe he's _a little _trashed. He sighs, defeated, slides his beer over a little. It's promptly snatched up.

"You couldn'ta even honked your horn on the way past to let me know you guys were leaving?"

"It was the middle of the night, what're you doin' here anyway?" he grumbles, picking apart peanut shells.

"Oh, I came for the _disco_," she snipes, "why else would I just happen to be here, in this city, in this disgusting part of town, in this stink hole of a club?"

"Hey," Dean says, scattering a thin pile of bills on the sticky bar top, gathering up his jacket, "-whatever rubs your Buddha, honey. See ya."

He should've known he wouldn't be able to loose her though, she trails after him, same as always. Teetering down the stairs on implausible heels and clip-clipping onto the silent tarmac behind him when they get outside. It's starting to rain.

"Your not thinking about driving?" she wonders, disbelieving, when she sees him heading for the car. He ignores her, rakes for his keys but feels her hearty grip around his bicep before he can find'em, yanking his arm up and out of his pocket. "Don't. C'mon, I'll drive you." She drags at his arm, imploring.

It's very familiar, and he wants to tell her to fuck all the way off, tell her that he'd rather take his chances on his own, thanks, than get in a car with her and watch her try not to drive'em into a canyon with those fucking stupid stilettos on her feet. But he doesn't, of course, he lets her girl-handle him all the way to her car, knowing he'll _probably_ be grateful for the ride come morning.

He cracks an eye open when he feels the car jerk to a stop, stomach lurching dangerously, yearning for the continuation of soothing motion. They're at an apartment block.

"What's zis?" he musters, frowning at her.

"My place. I live on the third floor, c'mon I might even make you some coffee," she says, unclicking her seat belt and then his, trying to rouse him a bit. He feels ridiculously, irrationally cheated by this turn of events.

"I thought you came here to save me from dying in a drunken car wreck," he says, indignant. Moira's having none of it though, she rolls her eyes at him.

"I'm not your freakin' guardian angel, shit Dean, I'm not supposed to even _know_ you."

"Then why'd you show up and chase me outta the bar?" he asks, offended. She looks over at him, relaxing in her seat.

"You know why," she says simply. And he does, reasons for_ her _just sprout up at the forefront of his alcohol addled brain. "You been thinkin' 'bout wishing something stupid, Dean?"

He grunts, shoulda figured there'd be rules to these things, fricken' loopholes for everything, 'cause he's pretty sure he wished and wished when he was little. Spent all his time thinking up wishes and then sending out there to whoever was listening and getting diddly squat for his trouble.

"How do you know I haven't used'em already?" he asks, mostly to distract her, but it's been itching at him for a while.

"'Cause I'm still around to bug you...But, now that you mention it? You have. Used one, I mean."

"I have? On what?" He's kinda hoping it's not the one he's been thinking about lately, 'cause Jesus, it's selfish, really selfish, and not a decision he should be allowed to make at all.

"Mmm, it's from a long time ago." She looks over at him, pats his hand."It' kinda still pending, but I think it's looking bright...Come on, I'll even make you breakfast tomorrow if you promise not to puke on anything." And she gets out of the car, knowing, using herself as bait for his interrogation.

---------------

He wakes up in a bed, with a headache. All his limbs? Check. All his clothes? Uh, his boots and his jacket are in his eyeline when he sits up, so check. All is lookin' good so far, and then a tiny person wanders in, both tiny hands clutching a glass carefully, watching it like the it's filled with dangerous chemicals. She stops in front of him, offers him the chemicals and he takes'em, 'cause kids shouldn't be allowed to run around with those kinda things, y'know?

"Moira said I had to throw that on you if your lazy ass wasn't awake yet," the kid announces before she skips away, all bouncing pinks and purples.

He finds the bathroom first, then he finds Moira in the kitchen, being measured.

"Hey," she says, "it's fresh." She hitches a thumb at the counter, O' Sweet Heavenly Coffee, and is immediately reprimanded for daring to move even an inch.

Chemical Girl growls, kittenish. "Now I have to start again! Keep still, for crap's sake," she orders, snapping her measuring tape like a whip before guiding it back around Moira's hips. Dean smirks, decides not to get in the way of art and, after he's secured a mug of Gracious Holy Coffee, goes to find his phone.

"Found a pattern two towns over, a monthly thing, so if you wouldn't mind wrapping up your tom-catting, we can get on the road and do our job--" dads saying. He sounds better, less dopey at least, which is good, means the _Humecant _poison is finally all gone from his system. Means he can drive, which means they're leaving, ay-sap.

"Dad, I'm not--you remember Moira Carpenter?" Dean asks, genuinely wondering. There's a beat of silence.

"Who?"

"She lived across the street from us in Harrington?" Silence. "Her aunt was the crazy broad who was always trying to tell you about the gopher revolution," Dean tries, and hears his dad snort in recognition, finally.

"What about her?"

"Nothing. Just, she lives here now. Saw her in that bar last night and--"

"Dean," his dad sighs, cutting him off. "We can't stay, you know that, son." Jesus, Dean wasn't _asking_ to stay, he's not a fucking kid, he was just trying to make conversation, something that isn't about a fucking hunt for a change. Just _hey, isn't it a small world_ type of interesting. Sam would've wanted to know.

And fuck,_ Sam_. There goes that record, the counter in Dean's brain flips back to a miserable _nil.  
_  
"I won't be long," Dean grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's gotta remember to beg some aspirin before he leaves.

"You got an hour, Dean," his dad decides, warning, like Dean'd asked for permission to stay out after his curfew. And Dean wants to yell at him, just a little, yell that f_or Christ's sake Dad, I'm a grown man, and I'm not gonna run away too, so you wanna cut me some fuckin' slack?_ But then, that's exactly why he doesn't.

He finishes his coffee at the kitchen table, watching while Moira gets fitted for some kind of tissue paper ballgown that's gonna be positively magnificent according to the little Chemical genius. Moira's studying art and design, or maybe advertising. A mix of both, he thinks, and his ears perk up a little when she tells him she models for extra cash.

"Who knew being a skeleton could pay the bills, and this way I don't have to eat, either," she chuckles. "C'mon I'll take you back to your car."

She talks for the whole fifteen minute drive, manages to nudge one smile out of him when she brings up that time they blew up photo's of his balls and stuck'em in Katey Handson's locker every day for a week. Man, he fuckin' hated that bitch. But that's all he remembers hearing, even though he's pretty sure Moira talks non-stop.

"Hey jackass, you're not listening to a word I'm saying here are ya?" She thumps his arm, gets his attention. The Impala's right where he left her, gleaming from last night's downpour.

"Sorry." But he's not, and he's pretty sure she knows it, he's glad, if anything, that he can still tune her out.

"Whatever," she sighs, fond, and leans over to kiss him on his cheek, but her mouth lingers there, one of her palms massaging into his chest, and yeah, that's more like it, all it takes is a little tilt of his head and they're kissing, mouths slotting together warm and wet and familiar.

It's like a flare, low, like something grating, match-strike friction scraping at his groin in an instant, like it always is with her. One second there's nothing, not a lick of arousal, and the next her voice changes or there's something in the air and he can't not have her. Dick hard and uncomfortable in his jeans and he's grunting into her mouth, encouraging and demanding.

He's dragging her out of her seat and over his lap before he knows it, sucking a trail down her throat as she mutters a curse, knee knocking against the shifter and then settling on him, and it feels so good, that press of weight, soft tits and silky hair, hot dips and curves for his hands to map and a pulse beating underneath, and then her fingers shaking his fly open, pulling back and away so they can both watch as she jerks him off. Rough, frantic strokes, exactly what he needs.

Doesn't last long at all, coils up and out of him till he's coming all up her wrist. Moira whines a little, slumps against him, unfinished and still wanting, nibbling at his neck.  
They come to their senses about then, and she shifts back over to her drivers seat while he tucks himself away, eyes darting round the car park they're in, the broad daylight, wide open, public car park. She starts the engine and he gets the hint, smirks and pops the door open, wanders around to his car. She'll probably want to go home and finish herself off. He grins wider, wipes it off his face by the time she can see him again.

"Don't do any stupid stuff," she says, reversing out. "Use your fucking common sense, okay?"

Dean nods, watches her drive off before he gets in the Impala. Him and his dad've been on the road for a few days by the time he remembers that there was shit he'd wanted to ask her about. Like how was aunt Debbie, for a start.

---------------

The next time is a long time after. Five or six years, anyway, and that's a fuckin' lifetime. She just plops herself down at their table and Dean has to stay Sam's hand before he reaches for his piece, always overly wary these days, protective in a way that makes Dean's blood boil and it's been getting worse and worse as the time's ticked down.

They still haven't found anything concrete, nothing that won't get them into even more fucking trouble, and Dean refuses flat out to even listen to any of that bullshit.

Didn't sell his goddamn soul so baby-boy over there would end up going ahead and doing the same, making deals with hell scum, nuh-uh, not a fucking chance. Sure, Dean wants to live. He wants to help find all those sons of bitches that got out and send'em right back to where they came from. He wants to steer Sam back to his apple pie life and watch him settle in, watch him laugh and score his dream job and be the best man at his freakin' wedding.

He wants to live, but he's accepting that he can't, it's coming easier to him every day, there's a debt that he owes, and he's not gonna wriggle out of paying it. It's fucking worth it, and if that bitch had given him a week it would've been worth it. He's refrained from saying this shit to Sam, though. Ended up with a fat lip last time he mentioned it.

"Huh, would'ja look at that. Sam grew up into _all kinds_ of hot," Moira says, nudging and grinning. And of course it only takes Sam another few seconds to recognize her, memory like a fuckin' elephant. They small talk at each other while Dean sits back and basks in it, listens to Sam lie through his teeth at her, darting uncomfortable glances at Dean every time he has to tell another one.  
Eventually, when the conversation's been exhausted, Moira sits back and shakes her head at Dean, disappointed that he allowed that to go on and on.

"You're still kind of a dick, y'know that?" she says, stealing a fry off his plate.

"Yeah, I know, but I've got six months to live here, lady, gimmie a break." He's really been making it count, too. Food and sex, and more food and more sex. He's really been over fed and over sexed lately, indulging, and Sam's fucking kicking at him under the table, Jesus.

"Actually, I didn't come here to wish you a happy send off," Moira says, mouth curling into something smug.

"Oh, no? Then why did you come here, Moira?" Dean wonders, leering eyebrow arches and all, she totally wants his cock, and who can blame her? Sam kicks him again.

"I came here to let you know that you're all out of wishes, as of today," she says. Dean nods, he'd figured that, but thanks all the same, it is kinda comforting to know. Moira turns to Sam, then, leans over the table towards him a little, conspiring. "You did a great job not squandering yours up until recently, Sam. That really must've taken some self control. But it's mostly done now, sorta still pending... it's looking real good, though. Just keep doing what you're doing."

"Oh-kay." Sam nods, smiling all sweet, humoring her before she turns back to Dean.

"You owe me at least one orgasm, Winchester. Look me up when your work's done and we'll settle _that _debt, huh?" She kisses him on the forehead and then flounces off, bell jangling merrily over the door as she leaves.

"I guess hysteria ran in the family," Sam snorts. Dean chuckles, silently agrees, 'cause what the hell was that all about? Fucking Moira. He stuffs half a bread roll in his mouth, chews thoughtfully, elbows up, unmindful of the half masticated food that's dropping all over.

"Oh geez, Dean, would you chew with your mouth closed?" Sam splutters, averting his eyes like the sensitive flower he is. Dean grins around the mashed up bread, shakes his head in negation. _Suck it up, Sammy_. Some things really don't ever get old, grossing out your little brother is definitely one of'em. Blow jobs from pretty little waitress' are another. Dean tracks a sweet waitress ass as it passes their table. Mmm-hmm.

"How is it that _you_ were the one who taught me table manners in the first place, and now you don't have any? You're disgusting, dude. What'd you do, trade'em all in?"

Yeah, traded'em in for a ride on your girl--wait. Huh... Well, he'll be dammed.

"Actually...yeah," Dean says, looking up, chuckling at the utter genius of it. Sam gives him a what-the-fuck-ever look and gets back to his meal, knife and fork and everything.

---------------

When Dean runs into Moira a couple of years later, he makes sure to let her know how grateful he is to her, for cutting him such a neat deal.

She rolls her jacket, jams it behind her head as a pillow against the wind shield. Tells him, "Maybe you're just lucky, Dean, you ever think of that?"

He smiles against her thigh, nips his way up till he can breathe hot and open mouthed against the crotch of her panties. Who wears panties with cows on'em? "Maybe I am," he murmers.

* * *


End file.
